Folke Viselius
Warden
Folke Viselius
Species
Human
Appearance
Folke is a broad-shouldered, carefully maintained man whose stillness is more striking than his size. His hands are thick at the knuckles and permanently roughened by keys, iron bars, winter patrols, and decades of opening swollen locks by feel. He moves with economical precision, never turning his whole body when his eyes will do. His dark-gray hair is combed back from a high forehead, and his short beard is trimmed so evenly that it looks measured with a ruler. He smells faintly of lamp oil, cold iron, and crushed juniper, an odor he cannot notice anymore. The unexpected contradiction is that his severe, disciplined exterior is paired with a remarkably gentle way of handling injured birds, stray dogs, and frightened children.
“Low, measured, and economical. Folke pronounces every name correctly, even when he dislikes the person bearing it.”
Ability Scores
Alignment
Distinguishing Features
His hands are visibly rough, dry, and darkened at the creases from iron, oil, and years of handling keys.
He carries a faint scent of lamp oil and juniper that lingers after he leaves.
His beard is trimmed with almost mathematical precision, contrasting with the battered condition of his knuckles.
He wears a small wooden boat charm inside his collar, carved from a prisoner's discarded stool.
He turns his head toward distant doors before anyone else notices a sound.
Voice
“A deep baritone with a restrained rasp, like a door opening in cold weather. He never needs to shout to fill a corridor.”
Clothing
A charcoal wool coat cut close to the body, a high-collared linen shirt, dark trousers, polished but visibly repaired boots, and a plain iron badge of office. He wears a reinforced leather vest beneath the coat and keeps his keys on a broad belt rather than displaying them at his side.
Body Language
Folke stands with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, thumb rubbing the ridged edge of a master key. He rarely points. When someone lies, he lowers his chin by a fraction and becomes completely motionless. In private moments of grief or uncertainty, he presses two fingers to the center of his palm as if checking for a pulse.
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